


Queenie, Queenie

by Voidromeda



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Horror, Horror, M/M, Outlast AU, Psychological Horror, Survival Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 19:11:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20030920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voidromeda/pseuds/Voidromeda
Summary: Rhys is stuck in an asylum with a bunch of human monsters in it, and God how he hates the living shit out of it.[A collection of 4 small, separate fics into one for Outlast AU]





	Queenie, Queenie

**Author's Note:**

> These fics were written originally from Feb 1, 3, and 6 in the year 2016. These are being uploaded for my own, personal archival reasons.
> 
> Ableism tag is there because Outlast is, inherently, Ableist.

The walls of the asylum are rotting and caked in dried blood; blackened against once clean walls, like some sort of bizarre art statement. Rhys stares at them, watches the blotches of blood on the wall take absurd shapes in his sleep-deprived state.

His flashlight is off, and yet he’s sure that it’s flickering light ever so slightly. He hears screaming and shrieking outside; someone is begging for help, pounding against all the walls as they run, screaming and gurgling on their own blood and slipping on piss in their mad attempts for freedom.

Rhys takes a deep breath and stands on his own two feet, legs quivering and shaking from exhaustion, and his heart is hammering against his chest despite his brief moment of rest.

Every part of him is screaming at him to run, _run _real far, because then he’ll get to Rhys, he’ll get to him like he got to everyone else in this asylum.

The King is coming, and Rhys doesn’t want to think about what that means. People have been chanting it for the hours that he has been in this hellhole, struggling and limping around when he is far, far too tired.

Lights swing above him, the door creaking open far too loudly for Rhys’s taste, and there is a man curled up in his own blood and vomit nearby. Rhys steps over him carefully, and the man gurgles and spits out onto the puddle of his own making.

It’s best he doesn’t look at it; ignore it, ignore it, he repeats to himself as he moves through the dark hallway with heaving breaths. He hears whispering in his ear; it’s a girl’s voice, distorted and warbled as it tries to lead him around, and Rhys doesn’t want to _listen _to her.

Earlier, she screams at him. Now, she claws desperately. He doesn’t care for it.

“Mother always told me, that to be king, you have to sacrifice _eeeeverything,” _a voice echoes out into the halls and Rhys doesn’t even think about it. He breaks out into a sprint, the dragging of a knife against the wall being his only indication of where the man is. “She always told me, son, you’ll be _cryyyyyying._

_“Now _sweet old mother, when she married deeeear ooooold dad, had the whole world in her hands,” the King sings, his voice seemingly everywhere and nowhere at once, “but she gave it up for love and sweets, far greater than any golden treats, according to that old _haaaaag.”_

Rhys rounds a corner when the scraping against the walls get louder. He clambers desperately into a room, fights back the urge to slam the door shut and thus give himself away, and he as quietly as he can moves a desk around and places it in front of a locker.

Yanking the door open, he stuffs himself into it and tries to sink onto himself, to hide himself away as much as possible.

“I don’t want the love, don’t want the love so bittersweet, I want all the _mooooneeeey. _I want nothing more in life than the golden treats, I want the _roooooyalty.” _The scraping stops, and Rhys can only hear that echoing voice in his head.

A girl’s voice in his ear screams at him to run.

The door to the room he’s in opens up. “Now, it ain’t nice to run away from me, cupcake. It makes me feel so _hurt. _I just want to talk.”

The King moves the desk away from the locker with terrifying ease, and Rhys freezes up. Bile rises up to his throat and he swallows it down.

He yanks the locker door open and, even in the dark, Rhys can see the scar on the man’s face.

“Let’s chat, pumpkin.”

* * *

“You’re making it– so awfully difficult to _talk, _darling boy,” Jack yells out as Rhys frantically runs through the facility, “all I wanna do is _talk; _do you know how difficult it is to find someone _smart _in this place? So _difficult, _sweetheart, we could be such good friends you and I.”

He scrambles to climb up into a vent, knowing that at least the King can’t get him there, and he nearly shrieks when Jack seems to bolt after him. He doesn’t need to look behind him to see that Jack nearly grabs his ankle, and Rhys counts his lucky stars that he is at least quick enough to get away.

“Sweet, pretty boy! How do you expect us to talk out our problems if you keep running away? I just… want to _help _you, and you can **help me.”**

Rhys is breathing heavily, coughing as he frantically crawls into the thin spot, and he can hear Jack’s tsking. He doesn’t try to stop and catch his breath– if he does, Jack will appear in the next room Rhys is going to go to and he doesn’t _need this._

He crawls frantically, noisily, and despite that he can hear the loud thundering footsteps of Jack as the man makes his leave.

Rhys is going to _kill _Vasquez himself when he gets out. That no good, scumbag, shit-sucking– “_Darling boy, _sweet, _sweet precious boy, _did you really think you can get away from me?” Jack’s voice sings out as Rhys finally gets to the room closest to the exist and he freezes.

Jack is _right there. _He’s in the dingy room, sitting on a brown, messy desk with his legs crossed, hands settled behind him, and the sweetest grin on his face. “_Why… _I’m almost insulted, if I didn’t know you any better, baby doll.” Jack coos out and he stares at the vent where Rhys is, and he’s trying not to _panic._

_“_Come out now, will you? This is only going to be such a loooong hassle, sweetheart.”

Of course, Rhys doesn’t listen to him and instead tries his hardest to turn around and head off to the room this vent is connected to. His breathing is heavy, and Jack is laughing loudly. “Oh, you sweet thing, challenging me, hm? I like that. See you soon, _darling.”_

* * *

“Did you ever run into that cannibalistic brute, little boy?” The King sings from where he’s standing, gloved thumb sliding over his dulling blade. Pity, he needs to sharpen it soon. He _smells _Rhys in the room, knows exactly where he is, and it’s a struggle to keep the grinning at bay. “Salvador, kid. His name was Salvador. Small, small man, but freakin’ powerful, don’t’ya think?”

He picks up on the way Rhys heaves, panic forcing bile up his throat, and Jack has to keep from laughing. He needs to keep it under control; wouldn’t want to make his princess – princess for now, only now, now, now, he’s singing in his heart and praise is on the tip of his tongue – run away. Far, far away. “Brutish dick. I chose him for that– told him, why, Salvador dear, I’m going to give you a… _chance _to get better.”

The devil’s smile spreads on his lips at the memory. He leans back against the table, and he casually waves the knife in his hand around while his other hand rests on the table. “Now, you see, he struggled at first. Indecent shit tore his trousers and briefs off to try and get away from our nurses. But my men, they’re pretty damn good.

“Caught him in a second.” At that, Jack pushes himself away from the table and begins to pace around in the room. “But he ran and ran and ran, and he killed some people in the process.”

He stops before a near conspicuous hole in the wall, rests one hand on his hips, and continues to twirl the knife around in his grip. “But you see, princess,” oh, how delicious that sounds, “he may have wanted to eat me up– I could see it in his eyes. Ol’ Jackie was so tempting for his taste. Good taste, might I add.”

Jack tilts the knife up and grabs at the weakened wall with both hands. Grunting, he strains his muscles and, well, having to punish so many disrespectful peasants helps one get _pretty _strong. He manages to finally rip away the final, crumbling yet stubborn piece of wall and Rhys is staring up at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

“But Jack’s the one that ate him up, you see.” He licks his lips slowly as Rhys focuses his hand on him and his skin goes pale. “No one messes with _me, _Rhys.”

When he reaches out for him, he’s surprised by Rhys smacking him hard with the cybernetic arm and _shit _that hurts before he’s sprinting away.

“You’re only making this _fun _for me, princess!”

* * *

The Cannibal– Rhys really did hope that he wouldn’t have to deal with the man, Salvador, so soon, but it seems that fate isn’t on his side. Not only is the King chasing after him, but it seems that they both have a joint little ‘territory’ somewhere in this messed up place.

They don’t have a… particularly _nice _relationship with each other, and Rhys isn’t all that interested in being chased by a burly, strong cannibal who wants to eat his guts or by a thick, megalomaniac who wants to crown him his Queen.

Really, why is it always Rhys? He sings praises to Vaughn and Yvette’s playful teasing and encouraging of him going into dancing classes when they were younger because that?

That is currently saving his ass, and Rhys has never sprinted as hard somewhere else in his entire life than he has now. His lungs are burning from hours of running and hiding, but he can’t stop.

On one hand, being cooked. On the other hand, being ‘wed’ or skinned. Really, there is no win-win for him here.

He glares down at his hand, wishing that he could use it right now or that this Hyperion piece of crap didn’t operate on _fucking batteries– _to be fair, they are pretty strong batteries, but still!

Stupid, experimental thing needing _god damn batteries _and stupid, stupid Rhys for signing up on the stupid experimental thing _that needs batteries for God’s sake._

Of all the things he’s going to sue Hyperion for the firts thing is going to be their god damn **stupidity for making prosthetics operating on batteries.**

Then? Then this asylum, because Rhys has been recording with his ECHOeye all the messed up shit going on here and-

“_Hellooooo darling!” _Someone yells and Rhys has to stop and turn the other way when something is thrown mere inches from his face. “Leading me _here, _to that _brute, _I can’t– oh, this is a test, isn’t it?” Jack sneers from where he’s stalking over to Rhys, fire in his eyes and knife gripped far too tightly in his hand.

Yep, he has pissed the King off. “Queenie, sweet Queenie, come here; daddy’s going to teach you a _lesson _in making him do something so…” Jack makes a noise, and Rhys is _not _going to stop and hear what he has to say.

Not when he’s pretty sure he heard the loud, manic laughing of the cannibal.

Crap.

Crapcrapcrapcrap.

Rhys is definitely going to feed Vasquez to Salvador, or so help him god.


End file.
